When I am 85

This is what I will remember:
The romantic sweetness of rum,
the melting feel of chocolate on my tongue,
the tired tautness of skin after a day in the sun.

When we dance I think about the beach.
I think about your surprising strength,
and how I depend upon it.
When we dance, I think about the beach,
and tall tales told on patios.
I think about the tantalizing mix of sugar and lemon and salt
at the juncture of your neck and shoulder,
the way that you smile at my dissimulation.
I think about your certainty,
your suspicion,
and your inescapable forgiveness.
In this room,
full of people I will miss
and some that I will not miss so much,
I feel the humid wind again.

And I will remember
how deliberately I planned to walk away from everything.

I would peel off all of my skin, leaving it at the water’s edge,
and stroll into the waves like Edna Pontellier.
I would use the bones of my arms and legs as weapons.
I would lie on the floor of the ocean and disappear,
consumed by rage and mollusks.
I would let my heart beat itself to death.

But you were there,
like wind,
To tell me stories of redemption.
You were there,
like sunlight,
To revive me with the sparkle of wine.
You were there,
like water,
To remind me of the old gods.